‘That is broadly correct,’ said Sladdin in a guarded tone.
Harry sensed the detective was far from certain whether he was interviewing a lover tragically bereaved or a callous murderess; he certainly wasn’t giving more away than was necessary. And the timing was critical. For if Finbar had been dead by six o’clock, Dermot McCray could not have killed him, on the evidence of Harry’s own eyes. It must have been twenty past six when the builder had stormed out of the wine lodge and into the night. Harry could remember checking his watch against the Town Hall clock when he passed the demonstrators five minutes later.
The alarm had, according to Sladdin, been raised by a teenage courting couple, who had come across Finbar lying in the middle of a road running alongside the derelict site of Colonial Dock, a place long abandoned by shipping and nowadays frequented by lovers rather than stevedores. They had walked down the road an hour earlier, on their way to the disused hut where they used to make love each evening after school, and the body had not been there then. The sight of it as they headed back for home was one they would never forget.
A car had run over Finbar. Not once, but several times. Even described in Sladdin’s clipped tone, the picture that formed in Harry’s mind was dark with horror. But he knew he must banish the image of the crushed corpse from his thoughts; it was the stuff of nightmares. With a huge effort, he dragged himself back to the here and now.
‘I still don’t see why you’re not treating Finbar’s death as a straightforward accident.’
‘We’re not ruling any possibility out as yet. Nonetheless, the circumstances are suspicious.’
Harry bit his lip. He desperately wanted to hear that Finbar had not been killed on purpose. For if the death was not mischance, and McCray was not responsible, he scarcely dared contemplate an alternative explanation.
‘Remember,’ he insisted, ‘it must have been difficult to see anything at Colonial Dock when the car struck him. I’ve not been that way for years, but as far as I can recall there’s no street lighting there. And the world’s full of hit-and-run joyriders.’
‘Very true,’ said Sladdin, ‘but this particular driver was at the wheel of the car Mr Rogan himself hired earlier today. And as I explained before, having run over him once, the same person reversed and repeated the job a couple of times for good measure. Scarcely an innocent mistake, or even a careless one.’
Melissa lifted her head. Harry sensed she was finding it almost impossible to maintain a semblance of self-control.
‘So Finbar must have been murdered?’
‘As I say, we have to consider everything. And that’s why I asked you if you could think of any reason for Mr Rogan to be visiting Colonial Dock this evening.’
‘None — none whatsoever,’ said Melissa edgily. ‘It’s hardly surprising. There were so many things he kept from me.’
Harry felt the conversation was drifting into dangerous waters. ‘Can we leave it there for the moment, please?’ he said to Sladdin. ‘This news has obviously come as a great shock to Miss Keating. And whilst she’s anxious to assist your enquiries, she’s suffered enough for the present.’
Sladdin looked at the silent WPC sitting opposite him, as if to gauge another woman’s reaction to his questioning. After a pause he clambered to his feet, seeming glad of the opportunity to escape from his low rattan chair. Harry sensed the room as a whole would not meet with police approval; it was too arty, with its French posters, studio cushions and kilim rug on the floor. During his brief relationship with Melissa, Finbar had spent a good deal of time in this flat; the attic conversion above his studio which he used as a bedsitting room was poky and unappealing even before the fire had rendered it uninhabitable. But the place bore Melissa’s imprint, not his.
‘Very well, Mr Devlin. You’ll understand I have to pursue my investigations urgently. We’ll be back in the morning; there will be a statement for your client to sign.’
Harry accompanied Sladdin and the WPC to the door of Melissa’s flat. ‘I’m not saying she is my client, Inspector. At present I’m here as a friend rather than a solicitor.’
Sladdin allowed himself a sceptical smile. ‘Afraid of a conflict of interests, Mr Devlin?’
‘You can see the girl’s shocked, Inspector. That’s not put on for your benefit. The thought of her harming Finbar is inconceivable.’
Sladdin pursed his lips. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
With the police gone, Harry returned to the living room. Melissa was blowing her nose; her cheeks were pale, her eyes puffy. She seemed as disorientated as a drunk, but he could smell no alcohol on her breath. He sat beside her on the sofa and patted her hand: not a sexual gesture, but one of support. Yet he could not remain silent.
‘Melissa, is there anything you want to tell me? Anything you didn’t feel able to say to Sladdin?’
Choking back another sob, she shook her head. ‘It was as I described. Finbar came here about one o’clock. He was full of himself, since he’d spent the morning persuading his insurers to let him hire a new car far better than the Granada he lost in the bomb blast. He’d stopped on the way for a couple of drinks, getting up Dutch courage, he said, for apologising to me over his fling with Sophie. It was as if he thought the past could be rubbed out overnight.’
Harry could imagine. With Finbar, every day was a fresh start: an endearing quality in some circumstances, but maddening for those who found it less easy to forget.
‘I–I cried myself to sleep last night. First over losing him, then on top of that the job … my mind was muddled, I blamed Finbar for everything. When he blithely assumed he could walk straight back into my life, I wanted to lash out and hurt him. A pair of scissors was lying on the table over there.’
Harry closed his eyes. It was hard enough to grasp that Finbar was dead, let alone that Melissa, rather than Dermot McCray, might have been his killer. ‘So you lunged at him?’
Melissa fiddled with a bracelet she wore. ‘I admitted it to the policeman, didn’t I? You should have seen the shock on Finbar’s face as I swung the scissors at him. I was screaming abuse, I’m not sure what I said. He wiped the back of his hand across his cheeks and saw the blood. A surface cut, nothing more, but it must have stung.’
‘Did he fight back?’
‘Grabbed my wrist, made me drop the scissors, nothing more. He was never a physically vicious man. The roughest thing I ever knew him do was nibble my neck.’
The Great Lover would not be doing that again. Harry felt sick in his stomach, but something prompted him to keep on with the questions.
‘What did he say to you?’
‘I don’t think he could believe I might want to hurt him, cause him pain. Finbar always had a blind spot — he could never conceive that, deep down, whatever was said and whatever was done, people might not capitulate to his charm. He saved himself by instinct, but once the immediate shock passed, he seemed sad. He told me I wasn’t myself and I screamed back at him. I said that was exactly what I was, I was myself and I belonged to me, not him. I’d never forgive him for how he’d behaved, humiliating me with Sophie, costing me a job I cared about. Never!’
Harry could picture the scene. Even when confronted by all Sinead’s bitterness, Finbar had failed to grasp why she felt so badly let down. With Melissa, it would have been exactly the same: impossible for the Irishman to understand why a woman who loved him might not be able to tolerate his sneaking her colleague off to a hotel for a little afternoon delight.
‘He kept repeating he was sorry, he’d never meant to make me unhappy, far less get the sack. He was so sure we could go back to where we’d been before he betrayed me.’
‘And you put him right on that score?’
‘Of course. I was furious!’
Harry studied her, trying to see beyond the emotional words and the nervous mannerisms. How angry had Melissa been? Furious enough to kill?